A Young Love
by MidnightNebula
Summary: Constance Bonacieux could not understand fate. It works in magical ways. When she was young, Constance Bonacieux fell in love with her childhood friend. Fate ripped them apart. Through an eventful encounter with a young man from Gascony, fate brought them together. Aramis was reunited his Constance. However, Paris lives in dark times. Could they risk loving each other?
1. Three Emotions

The first emotion he had deeply felt was curiosity. This young woman with her fiery, blazing hair and her mesmerising eyes; she was not curiously tantalized by his advancements. Aramis' family had travelled to a village in the countryside for their summer relaxation, and there had been a charming family nearby. Three older men; Theodore, Hugues and Jehan. As an only child, Aramis gravitated towards people. He held a charismatic aura. However, it had been the daughter that captured his interest. With her carefree hair tightened in a bun, her hands on her hips; she stole the stage.

"I am sure that your flirting is successful elsewhere, Monsieur." With a sceptical eye, she observed his body. Aramis stood mightily, his arrogance was evident. "However, they are not appreciated here." With that scalding remark, the young woman left him. Behind him, Aramis could hear her three older brothers burst into laughter, but Aramis wanted to look at only one person; Constance.

* * *

The second emotion he had felt was love. It was a young love, but love. In the next year, Aramis' family had returned to the open arms of that charming family. This young dame had matured, with blossoming curves and her lips were luscious. Something had not changed; her mesmerizing eyes and her fiery persona. Theodore no longer resided in that beautiful house, with its white panels and green ivy framing the windows. As, marriage had begun to take a toll on their mortal lives.

Aramis gravitated towards Constance, not that he would confess. He had stopped pursuing Constance romantically, but his feelings festered. The two would spend days beside the waters, or running through the fields. In the evenings, the two would return home. Most often than not, they would breathless and excited. Despite the fact, Constance's father would warn her about her relationship with Aramis. Constance could not understand his hostility towards Aramis. They were simply friends, of course? Nevertheless, she could not explain the flutters in her stomach when they touched. If Aramis' fingers brushed against hers, she would blush desperately. If he kissed her forehead, her scarlet heart would hammer. She could not explain it.

"I shall miss you, Aramis." She declared under the midday sun, as the two lay beside each other. "However, I look forward to seeing you again." She blushed desperately, as Aramis' fingers intertwined with hers.

Before he left for the carriage, he kissed her forehead. Her heart hammered.

* * *

The third emotion he had felt was despair. In his final year visiting the countryside village, Aramis' family had not been welcomed with open arms. The young dame, Aramis' sunshine was no longer there. Marriage had taken her. That beautiful house was now a dark, abandoned irritation. Overshadowing the beauty of the countryside village. Dust had collected on the white panels, as well as the green ivy framing the windows had decayed to dry ashes. That month passed long and tiresome.

Aramis did not return. The man had grown to become a Musketeer and resided in Paris. With his best friends, Athos and Porthos; he held a charismatic aura. Monsieur Aramis gravitated to people. In particular, women. Many women. In all honesty, it was a shame. He did not know that in the bed he lay, beside this captivating woman; Constance lived a few houses away. He never knew.

Not until, he became acquainted with a young man from Gascony.

* * *

**_I was finally able to begin my aramance fic. The storyline will be different in terms of romance, however I shall not change the characteristics. Until the next chapter! x_**


	2. Her, I Like

"Him, I'm not sure about. Her, I like…" His voice faded away as their luminous eyes clashed in unison. Aramis' breath hitched in his throat. Those mesmerizing eyes, those luscious lips with that fiery, blazing rouge mane tightened into a neat plait. Constance Bonacieux; his childhood love. Constance observed the man before her in awe, he had changed. His clean-shaven expressions were now masked by a beard, but that devilish smile could still be seen. Aramis' smile was illuminating; a blind beholding the sun for the first time. Every other person zealously became stars, compared to Constance. Marriage had taken them apart from one another, and a reckless young man from Gascony had generously brought them together again.

"What's going on?" A husky voice belonging to Captain Treville broke the sweet reunion. He scanned the men, but blank expressions were his only consolation. Sighing heavily, he allowed the instant to pass. There were greater matters at stake. "Never mind, did you find Corne?"

"He never made it to the monastery." Athos voice was laced with regret. As an honourable man, he would naturally worry for a fellow Musketeer. "Give us twenty men and we'll search the road to Chartres."

It was the professionalism that hammered Treville's scarlet heart with dread. He never would admit it so, but the Musketeers were his only companions. Athos; loyal and a defender of the law had been done wrong. Nevertheless, the inevitable was voraciously coming. With a heavy heart, Treville gestured for the guards behind him to come forward.

"Athos, I'm sorry. These men have come to arrest you." With a shock, Constance witnessed how quickly Aramis and Porthos rose to protest, there was a strong camaraderie here. The three stood mightily by one another. A dull pain settled in her chest. She had missed this warm union with Aramis; now, he shared it with others. Not her. "You're to appear before the King." Treville explained in a gentle tone, his eyes asked for forgiveness. "Charged with robbery and murder."

The air stirred with curiosity, D'Artagnan observed the interaction. This was the justice he had been searching for. Why was his gut instinct hushedly telling him that Athos was being wrongly accused? Morality is the herd-instinct of the individual. Surely, the confession from the murderer was an adequate solution. However, when Athos had been duelling with him; D'Artagnan had sensed no deception in his denials. Out the corner of her eye, Constance noticed Aramis' hand tapping against the helm of his sword. It was very quiet indeed, as if Treville had noticed this notion, as well.

"I promised there would be no trouble." He warned the others with an authoritative tone, but it was expressed in a fatherly manner. The metal clanging of the swords could be heard as they returned to their leather belts. With absolutely trust, Athos selflessly gave his sword to Treville willingly. Always the honourable man. Before they were to leave for the King's company, Athos was noble. He declared the truth. With a last glance to D'Artagnan, he only hoped that he young man would believe him.

"I'm not the man that you're looking for." D'Artagnan advanced towards the human barrier that entrapped Athos.

"Then, why did my father name you before he died?" D'Artagnan demanded with inexorable rage. His curiosity had been fuelled by anger and determination; the nagging voice in his mind would not cease. Athos was not the murderer. The desperation to avenge his father's eternal death was strong within him, Athos had seen that. Whilst, holding a sword to his throat. Athos accurately fathomed D'Artagnan's determination, all too well.

"I don't know." That is all the man could say, because he did not know. It appeared that there were many matters to uncover that were unknown to his knowledge. The guards began to push Athos in the direction of the exit. Aramis and Porthos followed their path.

However, the young soldier was halted by a soft hand clasping around his own. It had been so long since they had touched. Once again, Aramis was mesmerized by those stunning, lurid, deep sea blue eyes. Their fingers were intertwined in secrecy; pressed between the hardness of his leather jacket, and the velvet softness of her gown. No words were exchanged. They were not truly required. The way she bit her lip in excitement, his eyes twinkled with happiness declared it all.

_Hello, old friend._

* * *

Naturally, Constance grimaced at her husband's egotistical introduction. He was not a merchant for nobility nor was his middle name "Michel". The man owned no such middle name, however he was under the illusion that a middle name was necessary to be a successful business. Even so, her husband's antics were the last of her relentless worries. As she dressed D'Artagnan's bruises in bandages, all that she could focus on upon was Aramis. Her darling young love, Aramis. The man she had watched become a grown man, now a Musketeer. They had been reunited. An aspect that you only read in fanciful, romantic tales.

"I can't rest until I find the answers." D'Artagnan spoke so gently, his voice broke with painful hurt. A familiar voice called from the entrance of the sullen room, speak of the romanticist and he may appear.

"That's lucky because rest is out of the question." Instantaneously, D'Artagnan withdrew his sword.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Porthos raised a fingered palm in surrender. "We're not here to fight."

In all her life, Constance had never felt more uncomfortable. Standing opposite one another were her husband and Aramis. With a subtle glance, she noticed Monsieur Bonacieux examine Aramis with a sceptical eye. Not allowing for her feelings to be evident, Constance studied the intricacy of the cutlery handing on the wall. It did not matter, Aramis did not address her; his forgetful muse was focused on Athos' plight alone.

"Those Musketeers that attacked you. Would you recognise them again?" Aramis' leather-donned form was turned towards D'Artagnan only. He may have given the impression that he was not fazed by Constance's presence. However, that was hardly the case. Her presence was all too distracting; her flowery aroma, the colour of her blazing, rouge hair and her tightness of her gown that accentuated her curves. Completely and utterly distracting. Nevertheless, they had business to attend to.

They wore masks." D'Artagnan admitted with a dumbfounded expression. Behind him, Aramis heard Porthos' resigned sigh. Of course they had worn masks, these were no ordinary criminals. Athos' freedom was a faraway dream within a dream. Then, D'Artagnan shifted. A hopeful twinkle in his luminous eyes. "I shot one of them. His body might still be there at the inn."

There was no time to waste. "Right, saddle up." Porthos ordered with that gravelly voice of his. "We're leaving."

D'Artagnan was ready at the word. It was very special indeed, as if it was the surreal experience that finally made Constance crack. At first, she was reunited with her childhood secret friend. Now, the vengeful young man was riding to dark forests with men he had thrown knives at. What had happened to her lethargic days of cooking and cleaning? Her mortal journey had twisted too unexpectedly, yet here she was.

"This morning, you try to kill them. Now, you're best friends?"

There it was. The infamous commanding tone that Aramis had been the subject to. Constance Bonacieux owned authority when entering a room, be it men or women. As a young man, he had been mystified by her brutal independence. It was reassuring to behold that. He had witnessed too many women desperately lose that in marriage. Too many. It was seeing that independent, free spirit that finally made Aramis crack.

"Athos' life is at stake." He stressed with every breath, their eyes clashed in unison. Every breath, every sigh, every other beating heard in that room disappeared. All they could see were one another. "He is to be executed in the morning for crimes that he didn't commit."

Porthos and D'Artagnan rapidly moved past him, but Aramis remained. His body leant towards Constance, their gazes entrapped one another. Beside her, Monsieur Bonacieux was rigid with his arms pressed against his own sides. However, with a suspicious eye; he watched the way Aramis softened his voice towards Constance; in the way old friends do. Aramis bowed his hat respectfully on his leave. "Forgive the intrusion, Monsieur." His eyes never left Constance.

The painful confession was never for Bonacieux. It was for her; apologizing for intruding on her life. He instinctively knew the implications for this reunion. There would be sleepless nights, hesitant smiles and nervous touches in a crowded street. Except, she did not intensely desire for him to apologize. The intrusion was welcomed, as Constance watched him gracefully amble away with a mesmerized expression. Her soul lit up in flames of passion, her heart was beating with warmth and the young dame inside her was giddy with excitement. Without thinking, Constance went after him.

Her voice was sweet honey calling through the air; a swaggering rebel, he halted in his step immediately. Concealing a pleasurable smirk, Aramis turned to see Constance advancing towards him. The layers of her gown swirled around her curves; the woman gracefully ambled with confidence. However, that did not prevent her from biting her lip with tension as Aramis became closer in her view. Behind him, horses' hooves trotting against the pebble stones could be heard. The reality of the situation dawned upon the romantic hero; Athos' vitality was in danger, not his.

"Let me go with you," His secret friend did not waste minutes. Her hands rested against the curve of her back, and her eyes were twinkling with steely determination. "Athos is my friend, I want to help him." He was not fooled, he was aware that Athos was not her sole motivation.

"It will be dangerous, Con-Madame." The young soldier bit his tongue. She was not his Constance, she was Bonacieux's Constance. The tragedy of realism was brutal and cruel. As far as anyone was aware, the two had never met. It was only fair for Constance's honour, that he did not taint it. Nevertheless, his protestations were ignored as the fair lady strolled over his horse.

It is a well-known fact that Aramis' horse would not be charmed by others, except himself. However, in this instance; Constance was a natural. As he watched her whisper lovingly to the mare, whilst stroking it's mane with tender love; Porthos jabbed him sharply in the chest. It was a warning. Porthos has noticed the looks of longing that had passed between them; he was not a fool. Aramis wished to seduce her. Could the man not rest his affections?

"Well, you're clearly not going to listen to me…" Aramis continued, but Constance was enraptured by the beautiful brazen beast. He gritted his teeth at the sight, which was a ridiculous notion. He was jealous of a horse? "You can only come if you take off the dress."

"Excuse me?!"

* * *

It was liberating to be donned in a leather uniform and to be riding through the snow-capped hills, with the sun shining on the horizon. Porthos had wrapped her hair tightly underneath a hat, to conceal her femininity. The hat had been given by Aramis. When she strolled around in her new uniform; a mystical look of pride illuminated his smile. The young soldier, D'Artagnan had protested against her involvement. Nevertheless, after a seething glare on Constance's part; the man had taught her to adventurously travel in haste. Now, the four were galloping through the hills of a world of loveless suffering to right a wrong.

There was a ghostly aura enveloping the inn, the doors were barred with steel and there was no presence inside. Except, a wayworn wanderer. In all honestly, Constance had not prepared for the gruesome aspects of this mission. The three examined the orange-robed form, whilst Constance stepped back to prevent herself from convulsing with vomit. No man ridiculed her for it.

"This is no Musketeer." Porthos commented, he had shielded the body from her sight. However, Constance edged closer to examine the body. There was something about this man that unsettled her.

"Look at his clothes." D'Artagnan pointed. The young woman's curiosity was sparked; she knelt down beside him to curiously peer closer. He was in danger of fainting from exhaustion; nonetheless, he gestured towards the wound marks. "There are two bullet holes."

In a way that had always perplexed their interest, Aramis and Constance asked in unison. "So?"

The peculiar notion had not been ignored by D'Artagnan, who in return had tilted his head in confusion. However, the task at hand dictated his train of imagined thoughts. "I only fired once."

The others shared a look of repulsion, who was to investigate this second bullet wound? With a sigh of defeat, Porthos crouched over the body and unbuttoned the cadaver. The decaying aroma was gagging to Constance's senses; however she bit her tongue to prevent any sign of weakness showing. It had not been missed by Aramis.

"This is the shot that killed him." Porthos explained to Constance. At a moment in this journey, it had become an unspoken understanding that Constance was a Musketeer. No man minded. "And this shot…" He removed the piece of clothing, nevertheless; there was nothing to investigate. "…Doesn't match any wound." The clothing did not belong to the criminal before them.

Constance was mesmerized by the mystery; her kindred spirit was aflame with enthusiasm as well as severity. "That's not his clothing." She deduced from Porthos' examinations, all was silent as her words sunk in. Her young soldier nodded with confirmation, it was good to see she had not lost her wit in their time apart.

"It means he wasn't wearing the uniform when he was shot." Although, he was stating the obvious; Aramis' voice was laced with defeat as they all realized the inevitable. Someone else had been, as Porthos highlighted. Corne; that was the only logical solution. The three mightily stood abruptly and began to advance towards the horses; there was difficulty ahead.

Constance walked with Aramis, Porthos noticed the way they mirrored each other's gestures. The two would step in sync, and their eyes would coincidentally meet in accidental glances. That is, if they were mean to be accidental in anyway. As, the two were hushedly away from the others; Constance had no shame in forming her opinion.

"So, this is your life now? Looking at dead bodies and duelling in broad daylight?"

It should have irritated him; the way she scoffed bitterly, but it did. The man gritted his in agitation; it took every part of him to not scold her. Yes, this was his life. They had made their individual decisions, and now they must bear witness.

"Yes, it is." He mounted himself on the horse harshly; his back was forced against her in a form of passive aggression. "If you disapprove, then allow one of us to escort you home. To your husband."

Constance recoiled; her face was thunderstruck with shock. That last comment had not been made casually; it had been delivered in a sarcastic, resentful tone. In haste, Constance grabbed the reigns of the horse and tugged them towards her. Aramis presented faced her, seeing her crestfallen frown; regret. He only felt regret. "What the hell do you mean by that?" She whispered furiously. However, Aramis did not have the chance to apologize for his reckless manner; Porthos interrupted their quarrel.

All around them was white, but in the distance; they saw grey patches scattered across the ground. With instinct, their horses rapidly moved in the direction towards the grey patches. Bodies; more and more bodies. They had been abandoned in shame, with their forms lying in the shape of rag-dolls and their soulless eyes empty with no life. Aramis recognized that heroic being immediately. He lay there, with the expression of a helpless man. Not a skilled swordsman, not a kind man; helpless.

Aramis bowed his head in respect, with his hat removed; he whispered a blissful prayer. "Corne." As he asked God to grant his old friend a peaceful eternal life, Aramis stood to press on. However, a slender body brushing past him quickly ceased him in his midst. Constance bent down beside his slain companion; with a gentle hush, she tightly sealed his eyes in respect.

"I'm so sorry." She whispered to no-one in particular. Aramis could not tell whether that was a comfort towards her fellow travellers, or the poor unfortunate souls that were torn from this world. It was logical to imagine the latter.

Aramis and Constance felt sorrow; it was Porthos that stormed with anger. "They shot them like animals! Then, stripped them of their uniform." The man kicked the ground as his body shook with fury. Constance was numb; she could hear Aramis eloquently speak to D'Artagnan. However, her holy globe had been shaken and there was no comfortable way to cope with such a transition. Nevertheless, Constance Bonacieux was a pragmatist. Pragmatists march on.

It glistened in the sunlight; a small object abed in the snowy blanket. "Porthos, what's that?" She pointed to a golden circle in the ground. The man grasped it with haste; he too had recognised the sampling. His, decidedly, baffled frown quickly transformed into a smug grin; a bitter chuckle escaped through his lips.

"Was Corne carrying Spanish gold?" Silence lengthened between the three remaining, Constance did not recognise the significance of this basic coin. However, she could see Porthos' inquisitive mind at work. "You can go a year in Paris without seeing a doubloon, and that makes two in a week!" He smacked the second doubloon in his palm.

"Where did you get that?" It was D'Artagnan who asked. It seemed that Aramis was not perplexed by Porthos' variety of worldly currency.

"I won it." The burly man responded and Constance caught Aramis' eyes; the man had raised an eyebrow at the response. Feeling her ocean blue eyes on him, he winked in response. It seemed Porthos did not win the in the traditional manner, she may have smiled at the very idea. However, Aramis' previous comment had dampened her perky mood and she was not particularly enjoying the men's company. "In a card game with a Red Guard."

Every individual stood to attention at the mention of the Red Guards. Even a civilian, such as Constance.

* * *

There was an uncomfortable tension between these two, D'Artagnan could not decipher it. At every glance, Constance would glare and at every touch; Aramis would sigh. Porthos had left the young man to fend through the awkward silences by himself, as he searched for this particular Red Guard. So, when the opportunity to leave the two in their solemn company; the man grasped it. Feigning an odd excuse to take the horses back to the stalls, D'Artagnan left the two old sorrowful company to their lonesome. Aramis is not a lonely man; he desired to be accepted by marvellous individuals. The thought of Constance being livid with him, set an uneasy, deep feeling in his heart.

"I will need to go back to the garrison, to retrieve the weapons." The man made small-talk, Constance understood his implications. He did not wish to be around her any longer, her company had become bothersome. Well, she was not simply going to simper and whimper over the matter. Constance Bonacieux did not live to appease Monsieur Aramis.

"I suppose you want me to leave. Return to my husband?" The mocking undertone cut through the man's nerves with a raw knife. His old friend did not wait for a response, if he had not moved rapidly to stop her; she would have left the premise immediately. With stellar reflexes, Aramis' hand clasped around her waist and spinner her to face him. If she had not been breathless from the sudden movement, she may have noticed their closest distance.

"No, I don't want you to leave." _Especially not to your husband_, he did not add. "I need to apologize for my hurtful comments. Constance, you have to understand how troubled I am. I am truly sorry for my rudeness; you are entitled to your anger." He did the one notion she could never resist; the wretched soul smiled sadly. He released from his grasp, cool air enveloped her where his touch once was. She did the one notion he could never resist; she pouted with sympathy.

"This isn't ideal for me either, but I accept your apology." The young dame bit her lip, as she considered whether to assuredly declare her next confession. However, footsteps could be heard nearby. D'Artagnan was returning. Why must they always be interrupted? The romantic hero before her narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He had noticed the inhale of breath with hesitation, what words were on the tip of her tongue? D'Artagnan appeared in the door threshold, seemingly unaware of the lightened luminiferous ether.

"Porthos is ready."

* * *

Constance had been led to a bottomless cellar, with Porthos waiting for their arrival. At his feet, there was a bagged man who wore the Red Guard uniform. She did not ignore the weapons lying beside Porthos' feet. Allowing Aramis to join his brother, Constance watched from the side with D'Artagnan. It was curiously tantalizing to see their different attitudes; D'Artagnan was nervous with his hand pressed against his lips, Aramis was confident with a humorous smile and Porthos was vengeful with a bitter frown. They shook the bag from his head, revealing a dumbfounded Red Guard.

"Time to pay the reckoning for Corne." Constance resisted rolling her eyes. Aramis would be overdramatic with his words, wouldn't he? The power balance was clear to her eyes, with two Musketeers looming over Dujon's figure; the wretch resembled a helpless child.

"I bet he's gonna say, 'I have no idea what you're talking about.'" The man mimicked Porthos' prediction with a whimper, he was not gagged. Why was he not speaking his defence? It appeared to Constance that Porthos and Aramis had an intimidating reputation.

"Then, we'll have to hurt him." Constance bit her tongue from gasping at Aramis' threat. No, he could not. This man who would chase her through the summer wheat fields and choose flowers for her; he was not capable of torture. However, after beholding the traumatic Musketeers life; Constance was not certain anymore.

"At which point, he'll suddenly remember he killed him." Porthos continued speaking as though the man in question was not whimpering at their feet. The two shared a menacing connection. "Why wait?" It was a trickster's joke, it had to be. Aramis simply shrugged. "Let's hurt him now."

In the manner of a condescending parent, Aramis knelt to the hide of their captive. "It could go like that, or we could skip to the confession part. I would save us time and you – pain." He inched closer to Dujon's face, with a malicious grin. "A lot of pain." For some ungodly reason, that husky voice made Constance's heart hammer.

"I was-I was just following orders." Dujon stammered. Constance cursed under her breath, which Aramis caught with a secret smile. That was always the way, was it not? The soldier who will massacre an entire family and think himself innocent, because he was "following orders".

"He was just following orders-" Porthos repeated in a mocking tone.

"Well, we better let him go then." Aramis mirrored in a sarcastic beat. Porthos' impatience wore thin, he grabbed Dujon roughly by the shoulders; ignoring the man's helpless protests – the man was ready to beat him to a pulp. "Hold on, we're not brutes." Imitating a peacemaker, he allowed some distance between his friend and his foe. "We'll just shoot him."

"WHAT?!"

Constance and Dujon's voices echoed through the cracks of the cellar. With a satisfied chuckle, Porthos pushed him against the wooden pillar; Aramis swaggered over to her. Before he could hold the musket rifle, Constance held his wrist in her grasp. "Tell me you're not going to shoot him when he holds information." She hissed with urgency under her breath, all he responded with was a conspirator's wink. The man walked away before she could demand a serious answer, why could he not be serious for once?

"You know, people say I'm rather good with these." Her old friend declared with a confident stroll towards the shooting range.

"Good!" With childish laughter, Porthos bantered with their captive. There was something pleasurable about having the upper-hand in a situation, Porthos relished in it. "He's so modest; he's the best." The man began to bind Dujon's hands around the wooden pillar. Constance felt restless – she pushed Porthos out of the way gently and binded the man's hands herself. The reason, she could not hushedly tell herself. However, this man knew the key to Athos' freedom – by heavens, she would help find it. Porthos' patted her shoulder in gratitude and pride.

"But, the musket isn't the most reliable weapon." Aramis' confidence voice faltered at the sight of Constance binding the man's hands expertly. When had that occurred? Why on earth was the sight selflessly giving him a sense of pleasure? Nevertheless, he regained his composure.

"From a hundred yards, I'll probably miss as often as I hit." He bit into a piece of weaponry, and spit with fire. Metaphorically, of course. "For fifty, I rarely miss." He inserted the piece into the musket rifle. "But, from ten?" With a casual air about him, he brushed the tip of the rifle. "It's just a matter of which vital organ, do I choose to hit first?" The man began to beg; they had achieved step one. Establish who the prey is and who the predator is. "Porthos?"

"Heart?"

"Too swift." Aramis commenced to scan the room around him, his eyes fleeting from D'Artagnan to Constance. She shut her eyes; she knew exactly where this was heading. The woman was home-educated adequately in biology; she knew which organs would be the most vulnerable. "The liver, Con?" The brave lady gritted her teeth. Out of the entire alias' to use, he lazily shortened her name.

"A stomach shot would be harsher." The answer shocked them both, where had that reply come from? Aramis' eyes lit up in a way she did not enjoy she did not enjoy. Yes, she was immersed in their adventure. He did not truly require to be happy with that.

"How strange. I was imagining the same!" The man exclaimed in a perky manner. Well that was settled, Constance did not admire Aramis as a kidnapper. Far too unfathomably arrogant for her taste. "A stomach shot. Death is inevitable, but you'll bleed for hours first."

"You can't! This-is-murder!"

So, the helpless protests continued. Porthos shrugged his shoulders in a devil-may-care attitude. "We won't tell, if you won't."

The rifle clicked as Aramis rested it against his shoulder; his eyes perfectly trained on his target. D'Artagnan held his head high, with his arms crossed with tension. The soldier blew on the musket, igniting a small flame. Time slowed, Dujon tightly sealed his eyes; surrendering to his inevitable peril. Constance could not look away, her mind willed her to; her body would not obey. The seconds ticked down, Aramis' fingers pressed over the trigger. A swaggering rebel; he aimed, he breathed, and he took the shot.

"BANG!" Porthos rustled in their poor prey's face. Constance felt D'Artagnan's body deflate with heightened exhaustion, she had known. It had always been a ruse. Dujon's face paled with terror, his voice cracked between sobs and groaning.

"Oh!" Aramis sang. "I forgot the ball!" His merry tone dropped to threatening undertone. "This time." All eyes were on Dujon, who watched Aramis slowly place the ball closer and closer to the musket. A tear of sweat travelled down the man's cheek. He was ready to crack, Constance instinctually knew it.

"It was Captain Gordey!" The man declared with a defeatist sigh.

Porthos turned towards the newest Musketeers. "Of the Red Guards."

Dujon bowed his head, and closed his eyes to settle the pain. His hands were burning from the rope and cutting into his skin. "He told us to do it! He only wanted a few men, for something unofficial – an ambush to steal the King's letters." D'Artagnan began to step closer to Dujon, in a way that did not sit well with Constance. "Gordey went mad! He killed them all; none of us knew it would be murder."

D'Artagnan was threateningly closer now. Aramis noticed the tremor in the young man's shoulders; he caught Constance's eyes which showed concern for his change in manner. Porthos' exchange with Dujon was interrupted by a violent D'Artagnan, who wrapped his fingers around Dujon's neck as well as pulled his hair tightly. "Who murdered my father? WHO?" The young man bellowed.

"Gordey! It was Gor-"

"D'Artagnan, get off him. That's not helping!" Constance pulled D'Artagnan with unrivalled might. The captive continued to blabber, the murder of his father had been done to blacken Athos' name. It would appear that causing Athos' demise was a popular motivation for Captain Gordey.

"I'm not like him! I'm not a killer; I'm a soldier – like you!" Porthos interrupted this spineless appeal with a grab around his throat; Dujon began to pant for breath in the manner of a dog panting.

"Where is Gordey now?" Aramis asked with professionalism, although that was ruined by his imitation of Dujon. "Ah-ahah!" The man could feel Constance rolling her eyes.

"In the Captain's ruins! Outside the city gates. I'll show you where, just don't kill me." With ease, Porthos released the man from his tightening fist. Dujon dropped to the ground with the delicacy of a fish in the lurid, deep sea. With a condescending pat to the cheek, Porthos and Aramis instantaneously turned to the other two. Porthos was ready to move, but Aramis observed Constance for her reaction. Was she ready?

Pressing her lips together in steely determination, she brushed the dust from her uniform and fixed her Musketeer hat. "Let's go."

* * *

The Captain's ruins were rowdy with men; the halo of fire was burning with a crispy heat as the men crouched behind the snow. Constance was sitting on a boulder of stone, with a comfortable view of the ruins. There was no true requirement to dampen her clothing with snow for the simple pleasure of looking good. Through his scope, Aramis surveyed the area; Dujon was speaking nonsense. This was silenced by Porthos' strong elbow jab.

"The bridge is the only way in and out." He whispered; his breath was a husky smoke against the cool air. "There's too many of them for a frontal assault. I could take a couple of them out from here…"He gestured to a figure behind him. "Don't roll your eyes!" Constance rolled his eyes at his arrogance, regardless of his protest.

"By the time we've reloaded the rest, they'll be long gone." Porthos criticised this notion. From their position, it was useless. They needed a strategy that no man could resist. "If we're going to capture Gordey and get back those uniforms, it'll have to be by stealth." All were silent as he continued to muse. "We need a distraction, something they'd never expect."

D'Artagnan turned to watch Constance, his mind intelligently forming a plan. "I know something that might work." However, Constance was quick to realise his implications – her eyes were narrowed in suspicion and her mouth was open to refuse. "No, no and no!"

* * *

In all honestly, Constance was not surprised by D'Artagnan's 'prostitute' suggestion. Neither was she surprised that Aramis knew exactly where to find one. Here she was, cursing under her breath and shivering against the harsh, rimy weather. Athos did not truly know how valued he was. With her best strut, Constance sashayed over the Red Guard.

"What do you want?"

_Charming_.

"Fifty sous and I'll take you to heaven." Aramis had gleefully suggested that line, which she had ridiculed immediately. As she tested it on her tongue, it was not the worst charming line that one could say. With her hand rested against her hip, she leaned closer to the Red Guard for a better advantage.

"Are you one of those religious nutcases?"

_Moron._

"It was a metaphor." Her canvas shattered with disappointment, if she was going to seduce a man; could he have not been intelligent? Or a man who admired cheesy flirtations. The man was dumbfounded and she had thought her husband to be a fool. Apparently, stupidly was a common trade in the masculine gender. "Never mind! You can do whatever you like, I'm all yours." She rested against the barrier, so that the guard's back was vulnerable. "Clear enough?"

The man began to mutter as he examined her body, she was going to murder D'Artagnan. "Five sous."

"Five?!" She exclaimed in outrage, if the lady was to sell her body; she was worth more than mere five sous!

"Alright, ten!" He reasoned. Time was cutting thin as a dark figure could be seen moving through the shadows; Porthos. Constance muttered an agreement, however her pride was hurt. She was a worthy prostitute, surely? Oh, if Aramis had heard her thoughts – the man would have wept with tears of mirth.

Hands grabbed around the Guard's neck, he thrashed and convulsed under the iron fist. The man fell silent in Porthos' arms, who in turn threw the man at Constance as a figure emerged from the ruins. There was something unsettling about having an unconscious man lie on your bare chest. There was a catcall from behind her, utilizing the only prop she had; Constance flailed the man's hand around to gesture the other away. Porthos shuffled awkwardly with the raggy Guard, a bashful smile on his face. Her favourite person emerged, with that flirtatious grin.

"Ten sous? Shame on you! What would your father think?"

The man winked, before she could smack that grin from his face. The mastermind of this plan was next, his hands rested on her waist in a gentlemanly manner. From beside them, Porthos could be seen throwing the body over the bridge. Constance grimaced, as Aramis giggled.

"I am in your debt." D'Artagnan declared with the sweetest affections.

"I'm doing this for Athos." She shuffled out of his grasp, however the way D'Artagnan was glancing at a particular area halted her in her step. "Stop looking at me like that!" The man lifted his eyes from her cleavage apologetically. She had failed to notice, but Aramis had resolutely delivered a prideful smile in her direction.

"Stay over there and you'll be safe." The young man pressed a gun into her hand. "If you're in any danger, use this." The man left to fight the battle. Constance stared down at the weapon in disbelief. The lady had little knowledge about how to hold it, let alone use it.

* * *

The three stealthily hid in the gateway, they surveyed the area. Until, Aramis' attentive eye found him. "There he is." The man gestured with his head, and blew on the small flame in his rifle. "That's Gordey." The Captain was not difficult to discover, he was swaggering through the ruins whilst, nursing a luxurious bottle of drink.

Porthos scoffed bitterly. "He thinks no-one can touch him." Aramis pressed his back against the rocky surface, his right foot was placed forward and his hands gripped the rifle tight.

"Wait for my signal. Surprise is everything."

D'Artagnan did it; she had known he would do it. The man ran ahead, with his gun held high and at the top of his lungs; he bellowed. "GORDEY!" All soldiers were on guard, shots were being fired and the calm atmosphere erupted into flames.

"Surprise would have been everything." Aramis could not help saying with a sigh of defeat. The two leapt forward, with their arms ready to fire. One shot, two shots, three shots; men violently plunged down. Metal slashes against metal, D'Artagnan's feet stomped against the ground as he hunted Gordey down. Porthos shot upwards with instinct, a wretched man cried with pain. D'Artagnan speared through pain with ease; hell and rage mingling with adrenaline. Gordey hit behind a soldier, but D'Artagnan cut through him.

Aramis and Porthos hid behind a wall, with their thoughts intertwined; they altered who to take the shot. Aramis bent down to fire fast, the man crumbled to his knees. Porthos aimed right without a thought, the man running towards him yelped and fell. D'Artagnan and Gordey circled around each other, in the manner of predators.

"You murdered my father." The wounded young buck swung forward, his every strength backed Gordey into a corner. Gordey swung his arm back, the blade thumped D'Artagnan's arm, which caused him to falter. A soldier behind that honourable man ripped off his cape, D'Artagnan grabbed the material; pulling the soldier forward by the rag, he sliced the meaty arm muscle. Spitting blood, the young man from Gascony mightily stood back up. His hunt resumed.

Constance suspiciously watched from a distance as two men advanced towards Aramis. With the mannerisms of a dancer, Aramis swung his arm gracefully and in tune with a silent melody. Porthos could be seen grabbing a man more roughly by a headlock, with a twist of the neck; the man's body dropped to the ground. It was D'Artagnan's peril that woke the fighter in her. He was isolated with no weapon. She did not think, she did not breathe; she shot the soldier in the shoulder. He fell without a sound. He was shocked himself, but with a nod of gratitude; the man left to find Gordey.

There was a struggling sound to her right; Aramis was surrounded with only one sword to help him. This Constance was different, this Constance was a warrior. With her arm held high, as well as her elbow locked into position; she breathed, she aimed, and she shot. The third man held against him fell to the ground with a cry. This allowed Aramis to strike through two with one blade, finishing in a noble pose. Through the smoke, he saw his saviour moving towards him. Constance. There was no time to desperately lose; the three looked over the ruins to find D'Artagnan cornering Gordey.

Smash, smash, smash, clang, clang, smash; D'Artagnan was wild. Kicking Gordey to the ground, he stood over Gordey's fallen body. Two blades were held in a cross formation against his neck. Through his wretched screams, Aramis' guiding voice fought through.

"D'Artagnan! We need him alive." It was the sight of Constance standing beside Aramis, the two watching him with caution and hesitation. The young woman shook her head; she knew that look in a man's eye.

D'Artagnan tightened the blades around his neck, so he had the pleasure to see Gordey flinch. "Death in combat is too honourable for you. I'd rather see you hang." The man hissed with a murderous bite. The soft noise of metal could be heard from Gordey, the man ran at D'Artagnan's back. Without an imagined thought, the young man swivelled around and plunged his blade into Gordey's chest. Thunderstruck; D'Artagnan watched Gordey fall to the ground as the light from his eyes faded. Dead.

A whistle interrupted the moment. Porthos showed the wagonful. "Stolen uniforms, they're all here."

"With Dujon's confession, that's all the proof we need."

Constance stood in the shadows, there were dead bodies everywhere. The gun was limp in her hand, what marvellous good did it do her now? Who was she now? A murderer? In the last analysis, even the best man is evil. Her eyes fell to the man at her feet; her victim. A warm texture was wrapped around her shoulders in a chivalrous manner, D'Artagnan buttoned it for her. "I killed him." She confessed in a desperate whisper.

"You saved my life." That all could be said, Constance narrowed her eyes. Was that how soldiers slept at night? Did they justify every murder with that statement? With kindness, D'Artagnan caressed her cheek in comfort. That shook her senses, the Constance she knew had returned. The warrior was a memory she wished to imprudently forget.

"Take me home." Her eyes caught Aramis behind D'Artagnan. "My husband will be back soon." That was not addressed to D'Artagnan. In the way of a gentleman, D'Artagnan kept his distance. However, that did not prevent the magnanimous man from holding Constance in his arms as they left the ruins.

* * *

All deeply felt right again. Aramis sat in the tavern, as he pondered over the day they had lived. His friend had been arrested unjustly, he had been reunited with his childhood friend, Constance and they now had a new friend in their midst. The stool beside him creaked, D'Artagnan comfortably sat down. Speak of the hero and he shall appear.

"You came to Paris to kill Athos and end up saving his life." D'Artagnan poured them bigger drinks. "After a few drinks, I'm sure you'll appreciate the irony." The young man simply chuckled in response. Well, at least he was no longer aiming a knife at his head.

"What's wrong with him?" D'Artagnan pointed to a brooding Athos in the corner, who hid among the shadows and stared into the bottomless pit of his bottle.

"Women troubles." Porthos explained, no-one know which woman. However, they had learnt that it was best not to ask Athos. All you would receive was silence, and perhaps more brooding. Porthos could take no more brooding.

"Someone special. She died, that's all he ever said." That is all he would ever say. Aramis did not know his full name; he did know his origin of birth. The man would hardly share his birth date due to Aramis' delight in the festivities.

"I better stay behind." Porthos offered, but they could see in his eyes; he did not wish to. "Someone needs to carry home." Long nights the two had spent painstakingly hauling him home to his cracked, rackety room with a lodger who barely spoke a word. Perhaps, that is the reason he chose to bed in that godforsaken dark, unfathomed space. Far too dull for Aramis' taste.

Aramis stood ready to leave, with his leather gloves pressed between his fingers, the man turned away from Athos and towards D'Artagnan. "Do you need some place to stay?"

"No, I have a place." The man answered casually.

"In the arms of Madame Bonacieux?" Aramis dallied, whilst placing his hat on in his traditional manner. Although, he simply jestered with D'Artagnan; Porthos did not miss the way he gulped after asking that query. As if, he was afraid of the answer. There was feeling in his stomach that there was unfinished business between those two, he could not shake it.

"She's a married woman!" D'Artagnan exclaimed in good nature. The smile did not fade from Aramis' features, but he did stare at D'Artagnan in surprise. A married woman would not quickly cease his pursuits, hence Adele. However, in the accordance with Constance; Aramis would make an exception. He did not wish to risk severing their rekindled friendship, as well severing the new newly found friendship with D'Artagnan. He had seen the way D'Artagnan had caressed her cheek. A lover's caress

"You really are from Gascony, aren't you?"

"Plus, there's someone else." D'Artagnan's eyes stayed trained on the glass before him, his hands tightened around it. "The most beautiful woman I have ever seen," There was a nostalgic light in his eyes, as he remembered the passionate kisses and the lustful whispers. "We have unfinished business." He whispered conspiratorially, he remembered the murder.

"She seems lively!" Porthos and Aramis shared a look of understanding. Oh, to be young and infatuated.

"Oh, you have no idea." However, D'Artagnan's affections were far from infatuated. This was not a young man's pursuit; it was a vengeful man's pursuit. Aramis patted Porthos on the shoulder on his leave, and bid farewell to Athos. A lady awaited his pleasurable presence.

* * *

A drunken lunatic screaming his lover's name, how wonderful! All Constance had wanted to do was take a walk under the night sky by her home, her husband had not ceased asking questions about her whereabouts and the constant pressure had begun to unravel her senses. The drunken lunatic did not stop shouting, however as Constance stepped closer towards him; his figure lucidly appeared familiar?

"Aramis!" The torchlights shone against his skin, as she called for his attention. The man instantaneously turned to the mysterious voice in the shadows, but his stomach flipped when Constance's rouge mane blazed in the night fire. "Why are you shouting outside the Cardinal's house, you moron-hold on…were you here this morning?"

It was morning when she had gone to the food market; she had noticed civilians watching upwards attentively. To her right, had been a man hanging from the window laughing with delight. "Aramis, were you hanging from the Cardinal's window this morning?" The bashful grin and embarrassed blush said it all.

"Ow!" Aramis yelped, as Constance hand smacked the back of his head. Gosh, that woman had a strong swing! "Are you really surprised?!"

Constance kindly opened her mouth to confirm that, but shut it close after her mind began to ponder on that question. In all honesty, no. He was a popular young man in their country village and her friends would not cease swooning at his feet or admiring his every feature. His eyes were a fan favourite, but Constance always admired his lips. "No, I'm not surprised. You were always a womanizer."

"I still am." The man shrugged with ease, he was good looking. He could not deny, neither could the laws of nature. "You succumbed to my charm in the end…"

"I did not!" Heat spread through her body, as she fought against his infectious grin. She could feel her frown transforming into a smile against her will, Constance Bonacieux had never succumbed to Aramis; charm. The man stepped closer, his hands rested against her hips naturally as he pressed a kiss against her forehead. She missed his forehead kisses.

"Oh, yes you did! Otherwise, you would have punched me for that kiss."

"I still might." That only made him chuckle. The fluttering feelings settled and a soft pang hammered in her chest. With a regretful sigh, Constance stepped away from Aramis' embrace. They were not free adolescents running through the summer wheat fields anymore. "I can't punch you because I'm a married lady. You can't kiss me because I'm a married lady. We're not the same anymore, Aramis."

Other men may have spat in noble contempt at her rejection, but not Aramis. No, Aramis accurately understood the binds of marriage and how it hindered a woman's happiness. It was rare to marry your love. Either your family would disapprove or society would pressure them into doing so. He reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, Constance's breathed hitched in her throat. It was no worry; Aramis pulled his hand back from touching her.

"No, we're not the same. But, we are here. In the same city, out of all places! This is only the beginning of a great adventure."

Constance glanced away from him and blinked rapidly to prevent the tears from falling. That kindness, that wonderful kindness; she had yearned to feel it for so long. Yes, he was right. They were here and fate had given them a second chance. A young love reborn.


End file.
